


Petulant Insolence

by AlJeDd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Again not the sexy kind, Collars, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Master/Pet, Pet Play, Power Dynamics, Rope Bondage, but not the sexy kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-20 15:11:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6013423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlJeDd/pseuds/AlJeDd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Moriarty is no longer the feared man he once was - and this is his story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

James Moriarty once was a man not to be messed with. He wreaked havoc upon the country, sending the police and government into a frenzy. He doesn't anymore. James Moriarty sits quietly now, silent for the most part. His obedience has proven to take a lot of effort and time to transform him into something so placid - it has been worth every torturous step. Nowadays, he waits patiently for permission to even speak; sometimes that isn't enough to grant him the luxury. Those dark, menacing eyes once frightened hundreds - today they are warm and do not reach higher than anyone's lips. He is not allowed eye contact. Once, he grasped every opportunity to hurt innocent victims, but these days he is constantly restrained and exposed to violence himself.

He wears a collar nonstop, always leashed to something like a little dog. And if he isn't tied down to something by a strip of leather, he's connected to objects via thick rope or zip ties. The latter is the worst for abrasions yet the best at its job and is used often. The collar has Sherlock and John's phone numbers on it, hanging by a rectangular tag and neither can be removed unless by the owners themselves. Safety precaution, in case Jim ever finds the chance to flee, albeit he wouldn't get very far. It leaves him available to any mistreatment Sherlock wants to dish out: John rarely hurts him because he's a doctor and doctors usually do the opposite of hurting people. Jim prefers John. Warms up to him.

You'll often find John in his chair after work, reading or eating or watching TV. Nearly all of the time, you'll see James curled up at his feet, whether asleep, staring into air or also watching the TV. He will be silent, maybe sigh once or twice and snuggle up to Watson's shins, completely submissive and ever so pliant, ignoring his collar and the lead attached to the chair leg. He likes it when people stroke his hair. John does, reaching down to idly scratch the criminal's scalp, smiling when the other presses up into his touch. They are the nice nights, when he isn't being isolated for behaviour incidents.

Sherlock is not so affectionate. He's the one that ensures Jim is always tethered down and collared, checking that he has followed rules and behaved well during his absence. James is usually as good as gold, too afraid of the repercussions in disobedience to do anything but comply. He dishes out punishments and will most likely be the suspect to the many bruises and cuts James displays underneath his shirt. Moriarty is only allowed to wear one of Sherlock's shirts because they hang and cannot conceal weapons, and if James has been especially good he can borrow a pair of John's boxers (they fit him better). Sherlock makes Jim sleep at the foot of his bed - on the floor or under the bed where he cannot be seen, considering he isn't allowed on the furniture. Holmes decides whether he can spend the day in knee pads or if he is to crawl around bare. 

Moriarty, when not tied down with only a metre of leverage, is doing his chores. These are the only times he is permitted to walk around on foot, having space to move freely with a long chain cuffed to his ankle. It can be shortened easily, screwed into the wall via a hook that can be pulled and the chain will move into the wall space, easily dragging him back. He is only allowed to tidy and polish, sometimes mopping the floor or dusting as it does not include using objects that could be sharp or hazardous to anyone. Once or twice James has been caught attempting to open the cutlery draw, which contains many items that have weaponry advantages. They're locked shut, automatically every time they are closed alongside the fridge and cupboards, effectively stopping James from eating too. 

His diet consists of mushy foods, including blended meals fed via baby bottles or sippy cups when Jim is not being handfed. He doesn't starve, but never has the satisfactory 'full' feeling after meal times. Ribs slightly poke out, elbows and hips protruding from the lack of decent meals. Sometimes he cries, so hungry and weak and thirsty but John ignores him and Sherlock cannot understand; he'll never understand because he can forget about his body's demands. When he isn't labouring away, James is allowed to do his own thing - ranging from sleeping, hiding away, colouring (it's soothing) or playing with the soft toys given as gifts. He likes his toys.

The toys he is rewarded with are mixed between stress balls, foam toys that he can lock his jaw onto or plushy animals that provide comfort he is barely granted. Begging works on John: flashing the doe eyes and jutting a bottom lip, rubbing up against his legs and releasing pitiful whines until Watson sighs and grasps the other end of the toy or throws the ball down the landing. James will gladly go skittering after the toys, skipping back to do it all over again. The guy can go for hours, always filled with pent-up energy that can never be sated with the extensive games. John has shared his concern with the man's isolation. Sherlock dismisses the subject every time, claiming that if it bothers the blond so greatly then he such take matters into his own hand. Jim will be there, panting on the floor, dangling a chewed-up rabbit between his teeth, oblivious to the conversation above.

James cries a lot. He cannot help it, with all the suffering he endures on a daily basis. He is Sherlock's punching bag when the man is frustrated; he is the blame for every occurring in the flat and probably the most timid man in London. Once, he would've resembled the boogeyman - but now he is no more than the child that is plagued by nightmares in the darkness. He cries before, during and after every single punishment. He weeps when he is tired and hungry but isn't allowed sleep, because he has to finish his chores and it hurts. It hurts when he is rejected by the only people that talk to him, it's awful lonely in the little flat without anyone around in the day and his only company is his favourite stuffed rabbit - but even that cannot provide companionship that tethers James to sanity. He cries when he is all alone. He sobs when he is dragged by his collar down to the basement room and locked in the dark. What did he do wrong? The worst part, for him, is that he is never told his mistakes, can never have an insight on how to correct his behaviour. They do not give him comfort afterwards, or expressively display their forgiveness. Jim doesn't know whether or not they hate him.

He's a burden, for sure. That has been made clear from the start. Which is why he decided, months ago after continuous retributions, to become mute. That way he can never be in trouble for remarks. And not mute as to be fully silent, but so he only emits sobs or whimpers and whines, perhaps the occasional huff or growl of frustration. They don't get him into trouble, so he guesses it's alright. However, he produces a voice when there isn't anyone there to hurt him, or refuse the simple right. Mrs Hudson loves spending time with him after the shop closing time next door; they have bonded through small conversations in the pockets of Sherlock's absence. The landlady is ever so polite, tottering around and extending her journeys to the kitchen to find scraps for Jim to scoff down. Most trips around the flat are fruitless, only traveled so she doesn't have to see what such a magnificent man has been reduced to. He understands and gives her space. He likes her. She likes him, he thinks. He hopes.

Moriarty has been warned about making messes. From ripping up materials in boredom to spitefully doing his business on the floor. Of course, he is allowed to use the toilet freely, as both men are not willing to take the responsibility of cleaning up after the man when it is not mandatory to restrict such a right. James is pleased, glad he has a bite of dignity to swallow before anything else is taken away from his human sanity. He made an impressive, major destruction site in the kitchen once - part of a revenge plot after being punished for something of Sherlock's doing. He'd spotted the experiments on the table, and seen the severed corpses in the fridge (who could resist?). The whole thing had gone crashed to the floor, splattering God knows what chemicals everywhere alongside the body parts that were still being randomly discovered a week later. That catastrophe had been the official end of rights to open cupboards and fridges, as well as Sherlock being under a ban to abandon his experiments in easy reach.

Nowadays, everything is so dull and just plain  _boring._ There are  _so_ many rules and regulations that he's surprised breathing doesn't land him over someone's knee. It's the humiliation that makes him cry during spankings, not the pain...he swears! His psyche has gradually dissolved, the wall he built so high crashing faster than a kicked sandcastle. One day, he simply snapped. The mindset he fell into has stuck ever since; but it makes life easier so there is barely any point attempting to salvage the scarce remnants of his previous life. His beloved sniper, Sebastian Moran, was sent away to Asia, there under labour enforcement but probably executed on site. He shouldn't care - but the guy was the only one who truly understood him and to have him taken away so abruptly without replacement is frightening. He is all alone. Why hasn't he escaped yet? 

Well, Sherlock's damn brother Mycroft has something to do with it.  _The nosy bastard._ The ginger has eyes on him 24/7, surveillance cameras hidden within the very walls of 221B and onlookers tracking the flat. If he tries to run away (and he has many,  _many_ times), they immediately escort back to the apartment and remain there until either owner turns up to dish out punishment. When that isn't the case, citizens of London will report sightings of him; considering just after his trial and sentence his face was plastered everywhere to ensure nobody would be willing to help him out unless wanting severe intervention and life sentences. Yes, it was  _that_ serious. Dragged away in the middle of the street by authorities, for all to see, James would make a show of himself, kicking and screaming until he was silenced by a hand or paddle. On the worst occasions - the riding crop.

That dreaded riding crop is the bane of his life. It is always there, mocking him from its corner. He cannot go near it - is too frightened to. Why would he want to go within fifteen feet of the source of so many injuries? He cannot bear to even think of its name without spine-tingling tremours coursing through his being. It's understandable. Sherlock isn't kind with that strip of leather, we're all aware with that, and it's remarkably difficult to discover that he is a  _lot_ more brutal of Jim than he is in the morgue. James passes out with the pain - screams for mercy and sobs for weeks after. He cripples, unable to piece himself back together without John or Mrs Hudson there to support him. He is unlikely to move for days. Thank God John is a doctor and prepared to patch him up - Moriarty doesn't know what he'd do without him in those tragic days.

Overall, his life is a despair, but he knows it isn't going to improve; acting any other way would deteriorate the situation. He's just glad they haven't chose to overrule his sexual organs - they've taken away control over the rest of his body. He wants to die, shrivel up and be buried six foot under. Sleeping is the only alternative, and even that doesn't stave away the monsters in his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

“James, where are you?” Sherlock calls, whipping off his greatcoat and hanging it up in a swift motion. Mycroft trails behind, swinging that hated umbrella alongside him. The flat is deathly silent, as if the man isn't even there. The brothers know he is - it's impossible to hide.

“James, I won't ask you again. Where are you?” Sherlock bellows, jumping and ducking as he searches the main living area. Mycroft rapidly checks the kitchen, coming back empty. The younger sibling heads through to the bathroom and his own room. Nothing.

“Did you leash him? I thought he was always kept in plain sight?” Mycroft questions, hastily sweeping John's room upstairs for any signs and returning frustrated. Mrs Hudson doesn't have him; she's been in the shop all day.

“I'm certain, brother mine. He's around here somewhere - can fit into the smallest of spaces, he can.” Sherlock mutters, prancing around like a sniffer dog. Upon discovery, he shushes Mycroft's ranting to point underneath the couch. It has already been checked, but behind a blanket and a layer of dust James has crammed himself up against the wall, deeply asleep and curled in on himself.

Sherlock sighs, untying the rope secured to the leg of the couch before moving to the side of the furniture to grasp Jim's ankles in his hand. With one almighty pull the poor guy is being dragged from his safe haven, inviting the dust and long forgotten junk to join him. The elder grimaces, upper lip twitching at the absurdity whilst James rouses from his afternoon nap. Upon seeing two faces he hates the most, he startles, whimpering and backing away like a neglected animal. Sherlock rolls his eyes and tugs away the blanket to throw off to one side, noting to himself to have that washed. Jim sticks his wrist in his mouth and sucks, a grown habit that seems to comfort him in stressful situations like this. He isn't usually awakened by someone else during nap time, so this is completely new. Has he done something wrong? He doesn't think so, he's stayed where he was left for hours now and not uttered any complaints on the cruelty. The flesh in his mouth warms up, and dribble escapes between the corner of his lips and coats the rest of his arm.

Holmes sighs, glancing briefly at his older brother before getting to work at fishing bits of dust and grime from Moriarty's hair. Said hair is askew, looking as though the strands all had arguments and couldn't decide which direction they wanted to face, so all chose a different one. It looks like a toddler has risen after a nightmare, and it takes Sherlock his best effort to remove it all without snorting at the disgrace before him. James is not particularly pleased at being so rudely awakened, and so sends daggers at the floor as his scalp is tugged, wrist still firmly in his mouth.

Mycroft chuckles, avoiding the mess to head to the kitchen, in hopes of salvaging enough edible ingredients for two cups of tea. He does, to his surprise, brewing the beverage once Sherlock successfully yanks the last of God knows what out of Jim's hair with a gleeful 'ah-ha!'. James whines, feeling sore and extraordinarily tired. What would've been a two hour nap has been reduced to only a half hour - he'll undoubtedly be given a variety of chores to do later alongside having a late night. That's just the cruel way Sherlock works - as a small punishment for messing himself up. His collar is pulled, checking that the rope looped around the hook there is still sturdy before he wraps it tightly around the couch leg with orders to clean the floor. James gets right to it, prepared to be hasty for more sleep time. The cloth he uses becomes discoloured in seconds, but does its job very well and leaves the floor gleaming.

“Good boy, you've done a great job! Now c'mere let's get that hair sorted into something a little more...decent.” Sherlock praises, quickly releasing James from his short length of rope and guiding him to it facing forward between his legs in front of the chair. Mycroft joins them, parking himself quite comfortably in John's seat as he watches Moriarty like a hawk, already deducing the man's reactions to the onslaught ahead.

“I'll take my hat off if you can tame that wreckage.” he frowns, glancing up to see Sherlock's contagious grin at the joke as he mutters an 'I'll try' and firmly grasps a hair brush reserved for Jim. Said man practically gulps, audibly whimpering as he feels the prongs first come into contact with his unruly hair.

The detective barely gets the brush through once before James is crying out, squirming and clasping Sherlock's shin in an impressive grip. Mycroft begins to converse with his brother about current events and new cases, engorging them both in the topics to block out James' suffering. His head is pulled back by the force of the brush yanking his hair out, knots untangling and some ripping out entirely. Sherlock dismisses the man, kicking him lightly to shut the crying man up. Can't he be quiet for one second? James looks up, not lifting his eyes higher than the floor in fear of retribution, but only after he has his head forced up several times does he timidly look up as far as Mycroft's lips with teary eyes. Now, he is open for Mycroft to see his obvious pain, and whilst the man talks to Sherlock he does not remove his eyes from James' face, boring a gaze that might send him melting into the floor. It isn't nice at all.

Sherlock cheers happily when he manages to, and I quote, 'tame that wreckage' without the need of scissors. I mean, poor Jim's head is scorching and possibly bleeding, but his hair is now flowing one way and looks glossy again. Mycroft turns his lips down with a nod of approval, his eyes wandering over the voluminous strands and wondering how it could've possibly gotten into such a state in the first place. Sherlock explains about the frequent nightmares and how James tosses and turns, unaware of the trauma it causes said man to be spoke about so openly without permission.  _He doesn't have that right anymore._  Whimpering a mantra of self-pity, James crawls off to sulk under the kitchen table where he knows he can't get into trouble. The two brothers don't blink an eye at his petulant behaviour, ignoring him in favour to continue their conversation. Jim curls up, stroking his head and wincing at the sensitive areas. He wants John to come home. His wrist sneaks its way into his mouth and he begins to suckle with tears prickling his waterline.

Sherlock subtly keeps an eye on James, clicking on that the male is far from happy and is biting back tears. He isn't completely heartless - aware that Jim has done everything asked of him without even a whimper of protest. Therefore, he needs to be rewarded. Mycroft remains where he sits, knowing his sibling's intentions the minute he leaps from his seat and bounds up the stairs. He startles James at the movement, who jolts up only to bang his head on a chair leg, sending him crying out and huddling up further. Mycroft is indifferent, unsure how his brother and friend were capable of transforming such a feared man into such a fearful man. Amazing, quite frankly. Sherlock returns a minute or so later with a pair of boxers, shirt and a stress ball in his overly large hands. 

James watches from under his eyebrows, stiffening when the tall figure approaches without an ounce of caution, which to Jim suggests he's in trouble. At this notion, he begins whining and yipping to show his guilt, still oblivious to Sherlock's soft expression. The brunet crouches to meet James' gaze and smiles gently, beckoning the criminal forward. Jim complies hastily to avoid angering his suddenly sweet owner. His dusty, greying shirt is replaced by a fresh one that smells like detergent, and he rubs his cheek against his shoulder for comfort. The boxers are lifted up and over his legs, and in addition a brightly coloured and designed stress ball is handed to him, which he fiddles with after gratefully nuzzling Sherlock's hand. He is told to follow, and does so rapidly. Sherlock ruffles his hair in praise when he plonks himself down in his chair and has James kneel before him. Jim lowers his head to rest on Sherlock's shining shoe, his knees tucked up to nearly touch his chest. 

Mycroft announces his dire need to depart an hour later, jumping up and briskly leaving, umbrella in hand. Sherlock sends him farewell with a flick of his wrist whilst leaning down to scratch lightly at the back of James' ear. The kneeling male leans up into the touch; he's surprised at the affection and wonders why Sherlock seems so relaxed around him. It must be a new, exciting case. Jim wishes he could go outside, even just once, even if only for a few minutes. His skin is so pale now, even sallow around the face and he misses the warmth of the sun directly on his flesh (feeling it through the window isn't half as satisfying). But Sherlock refuses, and John doesn't want to draw any attention to himself by dragging Jim across town on a lead. 

James dozes off for another half hour, lightly snoring with his mouth ajar. Sherlock leaves him be, stopping only to tether him to the chair leg and be on his way. John will be home soon anyway to keep an eye on him. For now he'll have to make his own company. Just as he dashes out of the door, Holmes halts to throw the disgusting, chewed rabbit toy in James' direction and then he is gone, greatcoat flapping behind him. Moriarty uncoils, feeling at ease and in peace after hours of terror filled his being. He tugs his rabbit towards him, sticking an ear in his mouth to bite on as he blinks up at the clock. Two more hours until John comes home, another six (in estimation) or so before Sherlock makes another appearance. At least he hasn't been given any mind-dulling chores to complete and he gets to sleep too! This happens in a blue moon!

Like he predicted, John is heading up the stairs two hours later, carrying a bag full of clothes. James darts up, straining against his lead to reach John. Waston chuckles, advancing towards Moriarty to be welcomed with snuggles and licks. James is beside himself with joy, forgetting his previous qualms to settle with some pleasant company. The rope of his collar is removed and is tossed to one side. Jim is hot on John's heel as they move to the kitchen, the bag being dumped carelessly on the gleaming table. Jim's work, that. Curious, the onyx-haired man peaks at the contents of the bag from his position when he thinks John isn't looking. His hair suddenly flops forward and gets in his eyes, sending him staggering back in surprise with a sneeze, scowling at John's laughter. 

"Whoopsie daisy! Are you okay?" John chortles as he scans Jim's face for signs of pain. Moriarty sniffs, gazing up with an aura of innocence at his owner.

John groans, and accompanying an eye roll offers to feed James. The man eagerly nods, whimpering pathetically as John finds a collection of food in the cupboard to blend. Jim grimaces at the discoloured mix of something that probably tastes vile, and suddenly doesn't feel so hungry anymore. But Watson is relentless, grasping James' jawline and forcing the nib of a baby bottle between his lips, giving him no choice but to swallow the lumpy liquid. James backs away when it is over, whining and gagging with exaggerated gasps. John tuts at the dramatics, settling on a chair to empty the bag. He waits for Jim to slink over, glancing down when a mass of warmth leans on his thigh. After he is certain James will watch, he displays the four new baggy shirts he bought especially for the man - so Sherlock could have his clothes back.

They sit together for a long time, watching aimless TV until Jim stops squirming around on John's lap. When he is calm and placid, John lifts the man up by his waist and carries him to the bathroom. In there, Jim is hastily stripped naked and left to sit in the tub, noisily blabbering gibberish to himself whilst his owner totters about collecting towels and soap and a new shirt. He ties Jim up to the bar above the bath and sets him on the tiled floor, watching the man out of the corner of his eye as he shivers under the cool. In no time, lukewarm water is pooling in the bottom of the tub and James is allowed to sink into it, having the water only reach halfway up to his legs.

Bath time is always brief, only necessary for cleaning the sweat, blood and grime that has festered over the period of two days. His hair is washed and body fumigated to ensure he smells nice and remains hygienic. Jim continues his blabber, voice only producing yips and squeals of happiness as John carefully and clinically administrates the cleanup of dust and blood all the while listening for signs of distress or pain from his James. He notices Jim is particularly tender on his scalp and speckles of blood line the skin as if something has been dragged across it. Jim is shushed and handed a rubber toy to play with that effectively distracts him from the task at hand. John gets back to work, finishing rapidly and draining the dirty water filled with flaky blood and a concoction of other disgusting, unnameable things. He swamps Jim in a towel and scrubs his body dry - it abrades the skin and sends red blotches up and down his body, but at least he dries quickly. 

James sits still, quieting as he grows tired again. Sluggish, more like. A shirt is thrown over his head and his arms are slotted through the holes; he is crawling after John, drowning in fatigue a minute later. Waston places a mat on the floor for Jim to spread out on, preventing any dirt attaching itself to his clean top. James gratefully collapses, shivering at the cold air in just a shirt. It rides up, but his finds himself in a dilemma as his wrists are tied together and secured on the collars hook, him also being locked onto a chain. He writhes, growling in frustration at his predicament. He's ignored. John is indifferent to James' nudity, having seen him bare plenty of times; bathing him earlier was not awkward either. Jim hasn't earned the right to wear underwear, what with all his whining and protests during his mealtime (he should be lucky someone even remembered to feed him!). Feeling sorry for the guy, he at least crouches to pull the shirt down and give James that extra warmth - it would be disastrous if he were to become sick due to something as silly as a draught.

Jim snoozes some more, waking in the early evening when Sherlock bounds through the door, excitedly informing John in their advanced case. He's almost figured it out, it's right there, he claims, forgetting Moriarty's presence who sits up and rubs his eyes, only having slight difficulty with the tight bonds. The only recognition he receives is a kick to the ribs, swiftly sending him onto his back again with a high-pitched yelp - it's a rather undignified moment for him. Sherlock grunts, eyeing the male before turning his gaze over to John to speak further. Watson asks if he had anything to do with the sore head, and Holmes explains, adding little details to show the worst of James' day. John hums every so often, watching in his peripheral view as Jim sticks his wrist in his mouth, clutching the rabbit ear in his other hand but he does not dare move from the position he fell into.

Lurching up on command, James is dragged by his collar on his knees to the kitchen, where he is told to clean up. Rabbit is dropped, and suddenly it isn't the removal of the restrictions that have him feeling exposed, or his lower nakedness that even the long shirt cannot hide. It's the hawk eyes on his every twitch. His ankle is cuffed with the lengthy chain. Luckily, he's refreshed from the nap and when handed the necessary equipment he is vigorously scrubbing at the tiles and work surfaces, despite having cleaned them only yesterday and they haven't been used today, nor is the floor dirty. But he works without complaint, because why would he turn down a distraction from his miserable life? It gives him something to do, to edge away the boredom that creeps into his skull most times of the day. It's also a great way to exercise, considering he has some slack for movement and isn't restricted to his knees. Sherlock displays praise by walking past and patting Jim on the head, whereas John shouts 'good boy' from the desk that he types at. James wishes he could use the laptop; he wouldn't even try to contact anyone to get out of the flat, he just wants to know what the outside world is like after being cooped up for so long with only brief news reports on the TV or glimpses of the newspaper to go by. He doesn't want to spend the remainder of his life in these four walls, not if he was once James Moriarty; who could go anywhere he wanted whenever he wanted. But who is he to moan? He is fed, watered and has a roof over his head (though wouldn't it be nice to live freely on the streets? A new adventure everyday!). 

There's scarce mental stimulation around the flat to keep him sane, and even then he's teetering on suicidal. What he would do to go outside, if only. If only he knew what would happen if he ventured through the door alone - would he still be willing to take the risk? During his little thinking session, James has scrubbed the same spot continuously for five minutes, zoned out in his own world without a clue that both of his owners are watching him in mild amusement. However, Sherlock is not happy that he is allowing himself to get so easily distracted when he has been given a job; he should be grateful he's even having an opportunity to not be a lemon, or that for this he will not be sleeping out on the landing! He'll just be receiving a well deserved ass-whooping instead! John stands, grunting as his leg twinges but moves on to nudge Jim with his good foot. The man instantly snaps out of his reverie, jolting up with a whimper and backing away. Lowering his head, James kneels and places both hands palm up on the floor to present his apology and submission. 

Sherlock sighs, removing the sponge and cloth from Moriarty's reach and stepping on the right hand, eliciting a yelp and sorrowful whine. John lowers to uncuff the ankle that has bruised over the weeks, hues of colours mixing between old and new. When released, James scurries back, pressing his back hard against the bottom cupboard door. His knees draw up to his chest protectively and he tucks his chin there, squeezing his eyes shut and wrapping battered arms around the curled up body. Sherlock sighs again, similarly to an exasperated parent who is disappointed in a child.

“You were scrubbing so assiduously...what happened?” Sherlock ponders, crouching to be eye-level with the sniveling male. Jim opens his eyes timidly. 

“'Mm sss-so-” he begins, blinking away tears and flinching as Holmes' face grows stormy. It reminds him of his own eyes when he was once an actual man, not reduced to this pathetic form of tears and apologies. Sherlock slaps the pale cheek hard, smirking as it whips to one side faster than the speed of sound (not literally, obviously - although that would be pretty impressive).

“I didn't give you permission to talk, boy. Now come here you wretched swine and for God's sake SHUT UP!” Sherlock booms, standing in one fluid moment to hook fingers underneath the collar and drag James away from his cocoon. He yelps and cries, twisting to free his neck from the suffocation but when his actions are fruitless he stops, gasping for air as his face increasingly grows red to purple.

Sherlock finishes his choking at the couch, dropping the collar effortlessly but returning seconds later with a rolled up newspaper. No warning given, a blotchy face is beaten with the pages, quite effectively bruising the skin and leaving lashes of large paper cuts there. James cries out, attempting to relax his face to prevent worsening the pain and damage, albeit it still fuckin' hurts! He's surprised it works so well; his heart pangs for all the pets given the same treatment. Five minutes later, he's blinking blood out of teary eyes and crying for mercy, wanting nothing more than to nuzzle Sherlock to convey his guilt and upset. Why won't he stop? John observes from afar whilst he rinses the cloth and sponge under tap water (James is jealous of those items so badly right now) to put away, nonetheless omitting help to the abused male. The onslaught is over when Sherlock feels disdainful, further hauling Jim outside of the flat. 

At first, James is expectant for the blow to the face and a rope to be tied to the banister, but to his utter astonishment his weak body is pushed unceremoniously down the steps. He crashes at each stair, head whirring and dizzy as he lands ungracefully at the bottom. Groaning, he lies still to wait for the daze to dissipate, blind to the man following him. He whimpers loudly when the large, cold hands circle his neck, lifting him up to maneuver him to the side of the stairs. Here, his collar is finally tied to a higher railing and left dangling, much to weak to hold himself up. Moriarty struggles, feet sliding around underneath him for some grip as his mouth falls slack, breathing laboured under the immense pressure.

Mrs Hudson steps out of her door to check out the commotion, letting out a breathless 'oh' at the sight before her. Sherlock insists it is for disciplinary reasons and for her to ignore him; that everything is fine and she shouldn't fret. The woman is wary, eyeing James who begs with glassy eyes for her to let him go, because he can't breathe and it hurts and he's losing his vision under the haze. But she doesn't. Simply puts a frail hand on her chest and retreats, shock evident on her features. Jim sobs, guttural noises escaping from his lips as his airways are unrelentingly constricted, but Sherlock only advises him to keep still and refrain from struggling, further telling him he'll be back in the morning. James obeys although he doesn't feel any relief and his heart skips a beat at just the thought of being left here for hours in the dark. 


	3. Chapter 3

The morning is quiet in the flat. Sherlock rises at the early hour of five to prance around and try out some more experiments ready to be investigated. He's already solved a small case in the hour, and is now using his whirling brain to test the reactions of limbs left in chemical solutions. Downstairs, James cries, restless and tired. He wants to sleep so desperately but he can't when his oxygen levels are low and he hangs from such a discomforting position. Jim tries his best to be as quiet as possible, knowing he could potentially anger his masters further - but truly: did he really deserve this punishment? It's not like he attempted escape! Sherlock, of course, is aware that Moriarty is awake, but does not want to involve himself with the man's self-pity, feeling as though his endeavours are much more exciting and worth his while. John is flat out, sleeping soundly and Holmes doubts he'll wake before eight. 

That means peace for the next three hours. He'll be gone by then, if not John will leave for work, alongside him and possibly return at noon. He hopes so. After the lecture he horribly received on aftercare preceding retribution Sherlock no longer desires to linger when he has finished dishing out punishment here there and everywhere, saving that particular job for John, whom is much better at being caring (he is a doctor, after all) and providing suitable comfort. Today, he'll retreat to the morgue before ten, and not return until, at the minimum, one, when John has usually finished his forgiveness session with the pathetic male. In the savouring time he has to do what he wants, undisturbed, Sherlock decides to examine a few more cases alongside observing his ongoing experiment. By half six, three cases (including the one mentioned prior) have been solved and he has produced reports on them, ready for John to proof read and blog about. Lestrade will be off his back for a while if he can crack another one in time for heading to the morgue. 

To his correct assumptions, John is rising by eight and lazily plops down the stairs, feet heavy and dragging. He hauls himself into the kitchen to make tea, offering Sherlock a mug. Holmes is mid-way through his experiment and up to his elbows in paperwork from a spectacularly desperate client, who just wants answers as to whether or not her beloved husband has another family that she is unsuspecting of. It differs from the usual affair cases, and it sparks interest in Sherlock - despite it frankly being the only case even slightly motivational. All the others are a drag. John brings up the subject of Jim, swiftly dismissed from the man underneath the microscope who doesn't even glance up from the samples below. Watson, with a sigh, reluctantly trots downstairs to retrieve James, having an earful of grateful thanks as he carries the man to the living room.

John shushes him, sending a warning not to speak in the presence of Sherlock albeit the man refuses to acknowledge Moriarty's existence whatsoever. James eyes him fearfully, emitting a whimper in understanding and cowering behind John's legs. His shirt displays a puddle of drool and tears on the chest, having built up over the dreadful night. With a shove and a light smack, James is scurrying towards Sherlock with his best puppy face. His doe eyes stare up at Sherlock, and he raises a scabbing palm to rest on a thigh. Still, he is ignored, not even so much as a flinch giving away Sherlock's disgust. Jim tries again, adding pressure in his placement on Sherlock's thigh, whining in turn and bumping his chin on a skinny hip.

“What do you want now?” Sherlock snaps, tearing his gaze from the experiment to glare at Moriarty. Said man is slightly taken aback, but just as quickly regains composure and stares up, widening his eyes and whimpering again. He juts out a lip for effect, behaving like a dog begging for forgiveness. To his luck, Sherlock realises the gesture and with a sigh pats his head, rolling his eyes and turning away to look back at the microscope.

“Oh, fine! Now bugger off or you'll be downstairs for the rest of the day!” James knocks his head again once, to show his thanks before he almost sprints away, scrambling on his hands and knees to the safety of John's shins. The blond is reading a newspaper on his chair, clearing his throat when the familiar warmth settles at his feet. Once he's drank his cuppa he'll get dressed and be off, although slightly unwilling when Sherlock is still around. Without even needing to ponder the thought, Holmes is leaping away to gather his greatcoat, announcing his return after twelve. John senses he desires to be gone whilst he picks up the pieces from the previous nights incident.

James is more than pleased, instantly relaxing at the departure and feeling content enough to abandon his stress ball. “Get him tied down John! Christ how many times do I have to remind you?” he startles the male, smirking as he jumps up in fright. John sighs, folding the paper to tie the rope from his chair onto the collar. 

“He wasn't doing any harm, Sherlock. There was no need to burst through the door and give him a fright. Leave him be and go vent to Molly or something; at least she'll listen to you - the poor girl...” John protests, scratching the skull below him and standing with a stretch, accompanying that is a loud groan. Holmes mutters to himself, disappearing for certain. John claims how childish he is under his breath and vanishes to prepare for work.

Jim is quiet, lying on his side with his face pressed into the chair, breathing in the dust and such underneath. The beloved rabbit is in his mouth, the other ear stroked between two fingers as James attempts to calm his raging nerves. His heart pounds, but he isn't sure why - perhaps because he is expectant of some form of retribution or lecture that will leave him feeling worthless for the remainder of the day. When Moriarty is left feeling like he has let someone down, he cannot sit still without wanting to tear his hair out. Usually then he needs a distraction, like a grueling task lest he land himself in trouble through his whims. Therefore he pounces up and whines for John's attention, begging him to acknowledge his presence. 

John advances, all smiles and hugs. Jim snuggles up, basking in the attention he is so rarely given. The affection is almost overwhelming, despite him once being such a detached person when he is fully neglected it weighs down on him. Watson ruffles his hair. 

"You've been such a good boy, and you've taken your punishment so well and you're forgiven. Okay? I don't want you worrying about it all day." John says, scratching Jim's shoulder gently as he slips shoes on. 

Jim wishes he could wear shoes again. Or socks. His feet are always so cold, sometimes numb and like ice to the touch. He watches with careful eyes as John grabs his coat and swaps the rope on Jim's neck for the chain on his ankle. However, there are no chores for him to complete therefore he has free reign around the flat. He can reach the toilet and all downstairs rooms, although the front door and Sherlock's room are locked and out of boundaries. He cannot reach as far as John's room. Being caught trying to pry them open would be much too risky, and definitely dangerous for James. He cannot bear to think what might happen if he is unsuccessful in breaking out of the front door or entering Sherlock's room when not permitted or before bedtime. That could possibly be his death sentence right there. 

Would it be so scary to die? Jim thinks he'd prefer death, even if prolonged, if it meant he would have a closure that would permanently remove him from this endless suffering. He wants home, or a place he can call home, because this isn't a safe haven, where he can be himself and feel comfortable. Home is somewhere for people that care about you and look after you, helping one another and feeling safe and happy. None of these apply here. He is nothing but a thing, much lesser than a pet. If he was a pet, at least somebody would take a liking to his company and enjoy taking care of him, releasing him upon the epiphany that he is quite capable, more than responsible for watching out for himself, needing nobody else. He once ravaged alone, as a child. Then, he had guards, not that he cared for them but they were someone. And then there was Moran. He took a liking to him. Didn't care for him, but enjoyed his presence more so than the others. Sebastian understood him, stoic and reserved as he was. 

It was a human, that would listen to his rants and converse with him willingly, choosing to refrain from talking when not in the mood. James liked that in him; he wasn't frightened by his craziness and simply took it in his stride, prepared to face Moriarty's temper head-on. Of course, there's the odd occasion that Mrs Hudson will pop in to see how he is, allowing him to speak freely without fear of Sherlock's violence - and John rarely lets him talk too, on seriously terrible days. Maybe later, when he comes home for lunch break he'll permit him to vent for a little while; it'd be nice to release some steam.

And he does. Hours later, after Jim has napped and used the toilet and drank tap water in desperation, he enters quietly, finding the man curled up on his mat alongside (of course) his beloved rabbit. He'll have to wash it at some point, it can't keep festering and get James sick. That'd be a disaster, and Sherlock would not take well to it. Moriarty jumps up, stretching hastily so he can greet his master like a dog. He practically is one now. Anyway, after the happy reunion John insists on feeding Jim to ensure he stays up to health - the other is surprised that he is to be given two meals in such a short time span. Usually it's days between food, less for water (but never anything aside from water). There are a lot of grimaces and whines as the blended sludge is poured down his throat, but James is mostly compliant. He feels full, an extremely rare sensation that has him laying down sluggishly, suddenly tired and warm. He has been sated.

John makes himself some lunch too, and sits on his chair above Jim to eat it as mindless TV plays in the background. Watson observes James and how he holds himself, dissatisfied that the brunet is silently wishing for something. John asks him what the matter is, watching carefully as James emits a whimper and taps his lips twice, using the gesture to ask permission to speak. John is reluctant at first, letting out a sigh through gritted teeth before he fruitlessly glances at his surroundings, checking for anyone. As expected the place is barren apart from them so he looks down again and nods, setting his plate on the coffee table beside him to lift Moriarty onto his lap. The smaller curls up, head resting nicely on John's shoulder.

“I'm sorry for being bad, Master.” James begins - he knows now to be respectful if he wants some leeway. John scratches his scalp gently, running the other hand over Jim's back.

“It's okay, you weren't even doing anything wrong. You just zoned out is all, but you gotta be careful if you don't want Sherlock to be angry.” John responds, pulling James back to examine his face. The man has tears in his eyes and he bites his lower lip to contain the despair, but even then he looks similar to a chastised child.

“Didn't mean it. Really hurt. C-couldn't breathe a-and it was so scary. Now Master is angry at me and gon' hurt me more. I'm so so sorry!” James whines, voice cracking as a sob pushes past his voice and gives the green light for his tears to pour down. He wipes them away aggressively, growling softly at his weakness. He never cried before this.

John smiles sympathetically, leaning back against the chair so James has some space to breathe, still scrubbing furiously at his face. Intervention is necessary, and removal of the offending palms is difficult with the sudden thrashing. Jim is placed on the floor where he retreats to under the couch, astonishingly smooth in the movements. 

 

It’s hours later when Sherlock arrives home, looking completely worn out but buzzing in stature that John decides it’s time to set some ground rules. A few minutes of cajoling and finally Sherlock agrees to sit down and listen, if only to humour his flatmate. James hides away, under the couch where he has stayed since he first crawled under there after John calmed him down. 

He watches under hooded eyes as his heart pounds, wondering whether he’ll live to see the next day. He’s not quite sure if it scares or thrills him. John ensures that Sherlock is listening before he begins his rant. 

“Look, I know this may seem out of the blue but I don’t think I can handle this anymore.” John begins. He is disheartened when Sherlock scoffs. 

“You sound like you’re breaking up with me. Hurry up, I don’t have time for your mundane complaints!” Holmes snaps, eyes burning. Jim is glad they aren’t directed at him, but he doesn’t want to speak too soon. 

“Sherlock, stop it. What I’m trying to say is that I think we need to reconsider how we punish James.” That gets the man’s attention. 

“What? I have no idea what you’re complaining about!” Sherlock says. John pinches the bridge of his nose, composing himself whilst mentally counting to ten before he smacks the other across the head. 

“You really don’t think that last night’s punishment went a little too far?” John points out. 

Sherlock stares at him for a moment, eyes flickering as he deduces whatever the hell he’s trying to deduce. John waits patiently, accustomed enough that this is almost routine. Finally Sherlock is ready to converse, having found what he was looking for. 

“Perhaps it was a tad harsh, but he deserved retribution.” Is the answer. 

“Maybe so, but not to that extent. I mean come on, he cried his eyes out all night and he looks like utter shite for it. He didn’t deserve to suffocate all night for zoning out!” John’s voice is beginning to grow louder and James flinches, restraining a whimper. He doesn’t want this to turn into a fight. It’d be his arse getting kicked for it. 

“Well what do you suppose I do about it then? Kiss it better? Tell him how good he is? I don’t care!” Sherlock retorts, and now he’s angry. 

John releases a puff of breath. Sherlock shifts, but his stare is unrelenting. James pushes himself further into the shadows. 

“Sherlock, can’t you just apologise and maybe think out punishments before you go and kill the kid!” Sherlock groans, slumping in his seat. 

John is exasperated, eyeing the edge of the couch - he wonders what James is thinking. His flat mate has an unwavering gaze that he matches with a tad more fire, and he’s won. 

“James, come here right now,” Sherlock yells, unaware of how close the captive really is. James scurries from under the couch, despite everything in him screaming to hide or run the opposite way. 

The burning sensation on his neck is enough to send him towards Sherlock though. He never wants a repeat of the night before. Sherlock grabs him by the hair to drag him closer, ignoring John’s protests and Jim’s wiggling. 

“Jim, I’m sorry for punishing you so harshly. It shouldn't have come to that and I’m willing to make a compromise.” John scoffs at the negotiation, knowing Sherlock doesn’t want to give up his punishments. 

James whines lowly, bumping his tender head against knobbly knees and hoping that it’ll earn him some leeway. He just wants to sleep. Sherlock pulls the chin of the boy up to stare into eyes that don’t look back, instead Jim begins to breathe quicker and flit his eyes anywhere but to meet the other man’s. 

“I have a proposal. Once a week I get to do whatever the hell I want to you, and you will never have a punishment like that again. If you don’t agree, I might punish you severely every single time. That is my compromise.” John sputters. 

“Sherlock! That doesn’t help anything!” Sherlock’s eyes snap to his friend’s, sending warning signals that this could go nasty at any point and they both know who will be on the receiving end of those punches. 

“Like I said, that’s my proposal. He can take it or leave it. I don’t care either way,” Jim shifts; is it worth the trouble? He really doesn’t like the sound of last night’s palaver becoming a weekly routine, but at the same time he wants reassurance of when it will and won’t happen. He inhales deeply. 

“Go on: do you want the former or the latter, dog?” James grimaces at the nickname before raising his forefinger. “Well there we have it.” 

“Oh my god. I don’t know why I bothered, you made it worse!” John rambles to himself, standing up and departing to the kitchen. Sherlock watches curiously, before looking down at his charge. 

“Good choice. I’ll let you know a day before your punishments; think of it as a small mercy.” Jim grasps his own shirt with a bitten lip and bumps his head on Sherlock’s shin in a silent ‘thank you’. 

Later, in the early evening, John grumbles as he types up the newest report for his blog. He’s got a lot of work to do with all the cases his friend solved today. James is in between his legs, nuzzling John’s thigh for comfort as he cries. He’s been sobbing for hours now, and John is suprised he still has tears left to spill. Sherlock has moaned a few times about the noise, but he’s fruitless to stop it and instead flops on the couch in his pyjamas to think.

Life goes on.  


End file.
